"This is a strange end, François. I always thought I should die in a bed. Here is another kind of battlefield. Give me drink."
"Some water," Villon cried to Olivier, who stood a little apart from the pair with the resigned look of the physician who knows that his art is of no avail.
Huguette protested faintly.
"Not water. Wine. I have ever loved the taste of it, and 'tis too late to change now."
Olivier filled a cup from the flagon on the table and was for lifting it to the girl's lips, but her feeble hand repulsed him and she pleaded to Villon:
"Give it to me, François."
Villon took the cup from the barber's hand, lifted it to the dying girl's lips, and she drank greedily. The strong wine gave her for a moment something of its own false strength, and she struggled to her feet, Villon rising with her and supporting her.
"Your health, François. I suppose I have been a great sinner. Will
God forgive me?"
Villon stifled a heavy groan, but he was sworn to console her if he could, and, indeed, he believed his words of consolation.
"He understands his children."